The longer I'm a parent, the more I realize that there are some topics or questions that really bother me. I have been guilty of more than one of these myself in my pre-mommy days, but now that I'm fully immersed on the other side, I know better.
You may not agree with me on any or all of these, but these are my personal thoughts on some questions/comments to avoid telling/asking new parents.
1. "Enjoy the time when they're young. They grow up so fast!"
As a parent, I knew I had to do this, but in the spur of the moments - in other words, every single waking second - it's really really hard to enjoy. I personally did not enjoy the newborn stage. Not being able to do ANYTHING with my time (or so it felt) was so irritating at times. I literally felt like I had to feed her, put her to sleep, wash bottles when she slept, cook when she slept, pump when she slept, do laundry when she slept, and then repeat the cycle all over again. Yes, it's true, laundry can wait. Sometimes. Yes it's true, cooking can wait. Sometimes. Yes, it's true, washing bottles can wait. Sometimes. But every now and then things have to be done, and those things have to be done somewhere between the minutes and hours of tending to a baby's needs. It gets frustrating fast. Were there moments I enjoyed? Absolutely. Did I purposely try to enjoy and savor it? Probably not.
2. "Is he/she sleeping through the night yet?"
This is the favorite question of many people I know. Even family has asked me this, and it gets old really quickly. Because every time I respond with "No" they seem shocked - why isn't your baby sleeping through the night yet? Are you really that concerned about my sleep? Because if you are, you should really start asking women during pregnancy if they're sleeping through the night. I don't think I've slept through the night in an entire year or more. There's no true "time" for babies to sleep through the night. I've talked to friends where it took up to a year or more for their babies to sleep through the night. Honestly, I'm okay when she wakes up at night to eat because she eats better at night than she does during the day sometimes. So who cares if she wakes up at night to eat? I care if she's eating! Yes, there will be a time when she gets older and is more than capable of sleeping through the night, and at that point, I will parent a little differently in order to train her to do that. But when she's young - 2, 3, 4, even 8 months, please don't be surprised if I tell you my baby is not sleeping through the night. I understand this is a perfectly honest question to ask, but if you must ask, please always respond with "Oh, that's good," no matter what I tell you. (I've had friends/other parents ask me about her sleep and respond in this way - thank you for doing so. I appreciate it and remember who you are!)
3. Parenting other parents
This doesn't happen often, but I think there was one time, someone heard my baby crying, saw me "struggling" to feed her and told me "Oh, I don't think she wants to eat. I think she's sleepy." She may have been sleepy also, but I was pretty sure she was hungry, too. Once I got her to somewhere quieter and laying on the floor instead of holding her in my arms, she finished the bottle and then it was nap time. I think. I don't really recall anymore. Parental instinct is not natural FYI...it doesn't just appear when you have a baby. No matter how nurturing you are, how caring you are, how kind you can be, or how much you love your baby, you don't just wake up one day and suddenly "get the hang of it." So yes, you will see me struggle to take care of my own child. Please don't act like you know more than I do about my baby, even if you are a veteran parent. There's no "one size fits all" to parenting. By the way, I have a very picky baby when it comes to eating positions. I will literally try feeding her, she will refuse to eat, and then 5 minutes later she starts crying, I move her somewhere else, and she will finish the bottle. True story.
So what is something all parents, new or experienced, want to hear from other people?
Encouragement.
"You're doing a great job."
Seriously, something as simple as that, means a lot. Especially through the exploding poop diapers, crazy spit up, nursing/feeding strikes, hours of non-stop seemingly "for no reason" crying that babies do every now and then, we, moms and dads, need to hear that our endless guess-and-check attempts are not in vain.
To my sweet mommy friends who have encouraged me (and inspired me to write this post):
Thank you.
Sunday, August 19, 2018
Monday, August 13, 2018
馒头
My grandmother was the cook in the family. It's sad to say I honestly don't remember anything specific about her cooking. She cooked everything! I remember holiday meals at their house when they lived 15 minutes away from us and many dishes on the table, but I have no recollection of eating it. I was still too young to appreciate or enjoy the cultural dishes with sophisticated flavors. They moved away when I was about 10 or 11 years old.
What I do remember, however, is what my grandfather made: steamed bread (馒头). I remember in the summers he would cover their entire kitchen counter with dough and flour and make tons of steamed bread and buns. I never helped in the process, but I remember watching him roll out and knead the dough by hand. I remember him pinching my nose with floured hands. I remember playing with small bits of dough he'd rip off and hand to me. (Side note: This is where I learned how hot Texas summers were. Once, I took the small ball of dough outside with me to play. We had this little Fisher Price tricycle and some other self-propelling plastic toy car. I was riding around on one of them in the driveway. I needed to use the bathroom, but I still wanted to play. I remember leaving my ball of dough on the toy outside in the driveway, running inside really quickly to go, and returning back outside only to find my ball of dough was now a hollow, wrinkly, rubbery ball. Seriously, I wasn't gone that long. )
Over 15 years later, the urge to want to replicate my grandfather's steamed bread has returned. I think partially it's because cooking while taking care of a baby and working part time is exhausting. I have to think far in advance what to thaw, what to buy from the grocery store, and how I'm going to plan my time to prep and cook - I hardly ever cook at "dinner time" anymore. We love going out and buying steamed buns (包子) - so easy and so tasty - but it adds up financially. So the goal was to try and make some ourselves. However, the first step was to get the outer bread right.
I finally had some time yesterday afternoon to sit down and make some steamed bread. I followed this recipe. And found the results decent. I'm not sure if my dough didn't rise as it should have or if I cut my portions too big...I only yielded 4 and the recipe said 8. Oh well. Steaming time was also a little different because after about 10 minutes I felt they were done (they were) and took them out.
I was so excited to try one. Upon ripping off a piece from the side and tasting it, I was immediately transported back to my childhood, standing in my grandparent's kitchen, being fed bits of this freshly steamed warm bread. I'm not sure I could replicate this again if I made it a second time or doubled/tripled the recipe, but it's a start.
I did forget to follow the instruction to cover with floured plastic wrap, hence the little peaks on the tops of my bread versus a smooth round top. Needless to say I had a hard time removing the plastic from the tops...
We're one step closer to making 包子! One of these days I'll find an afternoon for hubby to watch the baby for a solid 5-6 hours and I can cook in peace.
What I do remember, however, is what my grandfather made: steamed bread (馒头). I remember in the summers he would cover their entire kitchen counter with dough and flour and make tons of steamed bread and buns. I never helped in the process, but I remember watching him roll out and knead the dough by hand. I remember him pinching my nose with floured hands. I remember playing with small bits of dough he'd rip off and hand to me. (Side note: This is where I learned how hot Texas summers were. Once, I took the small ball of dough outside with me to play. We had this little Fisher Price tricycle and some other self-propelling plastic toy car. I was riding around on one of them in the driveway. I needed to use the bathroom, but I still wanted to play. I remember leaving my ball of dough on the toy outside in the driveway, running inside really quickly to go, and returning back outside only to find my ball of dough was now a hollow, wrinkly, rubbery ball. Seriously, I wasn't gone that long. )
Over 15 years later, the urge to want to replicate my grandfather's steamed bread has returned. I think partially it's because cooking while taking care of a baby and working part time is exhausting. I have to think far in advance what to thaw, what to buy from the grocery store, and how I'm going to plan my time to prep and cook - I hardly ever cook at "dinner time" anymore. We love going out and buying steamed buns (包子) - so easy and so tasty - but it adds up financially. So the goal was to try and make some ourselves. However, the first step was to get the outer bread right.
I finally had some time yesterday afternoon to sit down and make some steamed bread. I followed this recipe. And found the results decent. I'm not sure if my dough didn't rise as it should have or if I cut my portions too big...I only yielded 4 and the recipe said 8. Oh well. Steaming time was also a little different because after about 10 minutes I felt they were done (they were) and took them out.
I did forget to follow the instruction to cover with floured plastic wrap, hence the little peaks on the tops of my bread versus a smooth round top. Needless to say I had a hard time removing the plastic from the tops...
We're one step closer to making 包子! One of these days I'll find an afternoon for hubby to watch the baby for a solid 5-6 hours and I can cook in peace.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
The Dollhouse Furniture
There's a doctor somewhere out there who has brought me much grief. No, I was not her patient. No, nobody I know has been or is her patient. Why then? Because she never returned what she borrowed from me nearly 15 years ago.
We weren't even friends really. We went to school together. She was a few years older than me and I had "little sister syndrome." I wanted to hang with the older kids and do everything they were doing. No, don't worry, I never got myself in trouble....for the most part.
10th grade science was chemistry. They had a mole project assigned, and she was making a little "mole" house I think. She asked if I had dollhouse furniture and wanted to borrow them for her project. Me, having "little sister syndrome," immediately let her borrow the pieces she wanted. They were some of my favorites - the shower, the toilet (with a lid that actually lifted up and down), a sofa, etc.
Years after she had finished 10th grade chemistry and was about to graduate, I remember asking people to ask her about returning my dollhouse furniture. Because we weren't actually friends and the introvert and ever developing passive aggressive side of me thought it inappropriate to directly ask her for them back myself. I remember asking a friend to ask her, and he told me when he asked her about returning the pieces, she became angry. Who does that?
I never got the dollhouse furniture back. Years and years later when I was cleaning out my dad's house, I looked again at my incomplete set of dollhouse furniture which was missing some of my favorite pieces. It'd been so many years, I had long given up on ever seeing them again. I boxed away the remaining pieces and gave them away. I had convinced myself it wasn't worth keeping an incomplete set.
It was just a simple $10 40-pc set of girly dollhouse furniture from Toys 'R Us. Everything was constructed of plastic in shades of white, pink, and light blue. I loved that set of dollhouse furniture. The drawers and cabinets actually opened and closed. The tiny television had a sticker of New York City with the Statue of Liberty framed between the Twin Towers. The set came with a mommy, daddy, and baby doll. The baby even had a cradle that rocked back and forth.
As a child I asked for a lot of things. I wanted a lot of things as children do. And for the most part, I did not get them. This is not to say I did not receive things I wanted or that my mother never bought me things. She bought me a lot of things - clothes, books, snacks - but when it came to toys, she was always the first to say no. With all the toys I had growing up - and I had a lot, most of them meticulously taken care of and saved to this day - I remember my dad buying them.
I remember looking in the Toys 'R Us ad and flipping through the colorful pages. I saw this set of dollhouse furniture and remember it costing $9.99. Surely that price for the value would convince my mother to buy it for me. 40 pieces for $10? That's $0.25 a piece - what a steal! I showed it to my mother, and she actually agreed to buy it for me. I still remember going to the store with her, and she asked the salesman to get a package from the top shelf because she wanted to make sure the box we bought was in good condition.
Thinking about this memory always makes me cry. There's anger. There's sadness. I've told myself over and over again I just need to get over it and move on. In some ways I have. Over the years I've always just thought the dollhouse furniture was sentimental to me because my mother bought it, and having lost her, it made the things she gave me more meaningful. This time, when this memory resurfaced, I realized why this set of colorful, cheap plastic was truly sentimental: my mother said yes.
We weren't even friends really. We went to school together. She was a few years older than me and I had "little sister syndrome." I wanted to hang with the older kids and do everything they were doing. No, don't worry, I never got myself in trouble....for the most part.
10th grade science was chemistry. They had a mole project assigned, and she was making a little "mole" house I think. She asked if I had dollhouse furniture and wanted to borrow them for her project. Me, having "little sister syndrome," immediately let her borrow the pieces she wanted. They were some of my favorites - the shower, the toilet (with a lid that actually lifted up and down), a sofa, etc.
Years after she had finished 10th grade chemistry and was about to graduate, I remember asking people to ask her about returning my dollhouse furniture. Because we weren't actually friends and the introvert and ever developing passive aggressive side of me thought it inappropriate to directly ask her for them back myself. I remember asking a friend to ask her, and he told me when he asked her about returning the pieces, she became angry. Who does that?
I never got the dollhouse furniture back. Years and years later when I was cleaning out my dad's house, I looked again at my incomplete set of dollhouse furniture which was missing some of my favorite pieces. It'd been so many years, I had long given up on ever seeing them again. I boxed away the remaining pieces and gave them away. I had convinced myself it wasn't worth keeping an incomplete set.
It was just a simple $10 40-pc set of girly dollhouse furniture from Toys 'R Us. Everything was constructed of plastic in shades of white, pink, and light blue. I loved that set of dollhouse furniture. The drawers and cabinets actually opened and closed. The tiny television had a sticker of New York City with the Statue of Liberty framed between the Twin Towers. The set came with a mommy, daddy, and baby doll. The baby even had a cradle that rocked back and forth.
As a child I asked for a lot of things. I wanted a lot of things as children do. And for the most part, I did not get them. This is not to say I did not receive things I wanted or that my mother never bought me things. She bought me a lot of things - clothes, books, snacks - but when it came to toys, she was always the first to say no. With all the toys I had growing up - and I had a lot, most of them meticulously taken care of and saved to this day - I remember my dad buying them.
I remember looking in the Toys 'R Us ad and flipping through the colorful pages. I saw this set of dollhouse furniture and remember it costing $9.99. Surely that price for the value would convince my mother to buy it for me. 40 pieces for $10? That's $0.25 a piece - what a steal! I showed it to my mother, and she actually agreed to buy it for me. I still remember going to the store with her, and she asked the salesman to get a package from the top shelf because she wanted to make sure the box we bought was in good condition.
Thinking about this memory always makes me cry. There's anger. There's sadness. I've told myself over and over again I just need to get over it and move on. In some ways I have. Over the years I've always just thought the dollhouse furniture was sentimental to me because my mother bought it, and having lost her, it made the things she gave me more meaningful. This time, when this memory resurfaced, I realized why this set of colorful, cheap plastic was truly sentimental: my mother said yes.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Sasha's First Road Trip!
The TLDR version:
- 5 days in Houston
- big party for Sasha
- didn't pack enough diapers
- bottle sterilizer broke
- super fun getting to meet up with friends and new babies
- 3 days in Austin
- baby's first wedding (and of course she woke up crying right when it started....sorry Nick and Tiffany!)
- one sleepy (but really good) baby
For the details and pictures, read on.
We took my little Corolla on this road trip because hubby's car is still "new" to us and we're keeping the mileage low in case we ever do want to sell it/trade for a minivan or something bigger. Believe it or not, we fit everything into my little car: a bouncer, a pack and play, a baby bathtub, bottle sterilizer, drying rack, her suitcase, my duffel, hubby's duffel and backpack, stroller caddy, diaper bag, extra diapers and wipes, boppy, and a small bottle of laundry detergent. I may have left off a few small things.
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| We are really good at tetris. |
And of course, 30 minutes into the drive, I realize I'm missing the second bottle bag with the extra milk in it, so we turn around to go home and spend about 10 minutes looking for it. Because what actually happened was we were getting her ready (and trying to get her to finish a big bottle before driving) and it took forever so I had the milk packed in the bottle bag. Well, I put the bottle bag back into the fridge to keep it colder longer and then in the chaos of getting her and everything else loaded up, forgot to get it out of the fridge to bring. So of course when hubby did our "final walkthrough".... he didn't see it. Oops.
We still made it to Houston in good time which included a pitstop at Buc-ee's! Perfect timing because she pooped and needed to be changed. Usually we were able to both use the restroom and both finish about the same time. Not so with a baby. Hubby held baby and changing supplies while I went. Then I went back in with her to change while he went. We always thought the stuffed beavers were cute before, but they're even cuter when you have a little one!
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| Fist Bump |
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| Fist bump? |
Sasha was really good during her big party. There were tons of people and she got passed around pretty much the whole time she was awake. It really helped her nap schedule because she would go to sleep, wake up and eat, and then be passed around again for an hour. This happened about 3 times until the party ended and it was time for her to get ready for bed.
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| The star of the show also happens to be the tiniest. |
This trip was extra special because it was also when we got to see some of our close friends for the first time in over a year! Since the last time we saw them, they had their baby boy who is now almost 10 months old and we had Sasha (who didn't even exist in cells yet!) It was so nice to be able to spend time with them, see their cute baby, Judah, and hang out together. Of course it was different than the last time we were able to see each other sans babies, but this is our new normal, and it's much cuter, more fun, and so worth it to be able to share the joys of raising babies even when we're many many states apart.
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| Mix and match mommies and babies. |
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The original plan was to have her awake during this visit so we could take some pictures while carrying her. We even put her in her UT onesie. Of course, she woke up later than usual, took a little longer to eat, and then fell asleep right when we got ready to leave. So you can't really see her pink UT onesie at all. Babies...I think they're much more keen than we give them credit for and know how to ruin all their parents plans, don't you think?
I think with the exception of my extra defined eye-baggies, I could totally pass for a college kid with a baby. I'm pretty sure I have a picture with a near identical expression from 6 years ago.
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| My oldest burnt orange tee with the youngest longhorn. |
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| We visited my favorite (aka: most frequented) building on campus. Guess where! |
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| Mommy used to live there, pre-renovation and all! |
We were going to visit the SAC as well because I remember them putting in the filtered water fountains that you could refill water bottles with. Unfortunately, we visited on a Saturday morning and the SAC did not open until 12 during its summer hours on Saturdays. Fortunately, there was a water refill station outside the building...along with lots of new fountains. At least, I think they're new. If they're not, please humor me and let me think they're new.
Of course, when traveling with a baby (and scheduling everything around my pumping schedule), sometimes you just end up sitting in your expensive hotel for the afternoon and letting baby roll around on the bed. Which results in some pretty cute pictures:
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| Seriously. Where did you get all this cuteness from? |
- First thing you do is to check the bedsheets to make sure they're clean.
- Don't ever walk around barefoot in the room.
- Try to minimize the number of things on the floor - keep them on chairs, tables, bed as much as possible.
Sorry mom, I definitely forgot to check the bedsheets until after we were all moved in and getting ready to sleep. (They were clean, thankfully.) I definitely walked around barefoot because when your baby is waking up 2x more than normal due to new surroundings and messed up schedules, it's just easier not to fumble with shoes, even slip ons. And we definitely put things all over the floor (except the baby!) because things are just better when you're not carrying them in your arms.
The wedding was fun. It definitely wasn't what we're used to - go to the wedding, sit and enjoy ceremony, socialize during cocktail hour, enjoy a four-course meal, dance, etc.
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| We still clean up pretty well. |
It went something more like: go to the wedding, hope baby doesn't wake up, baby wakes up right when ceremony begins, whisk crying baby away, come back and sit while bouncing baby on shoulder for 15 minutes, feed baby, push baby around stroller to fall asleep during cocktail hour, baby falls asleep so you go in for the reception, baby wakes up immediately during reception because sudden loud noises like the microphone wake her up, baby stays up all through dinner, hubby cuts wifey's tenderloin so she can use one hand to hold pacifier in baby's mouth so it doesn't keep falling out and cause her to cry, take a few photos at the photobooth with friends you see once a year, stay as long as possible to finish dinner, leave and go home so baby can sleep because she's been awake for almost 4 hours straight which is 2.5 hours too long, drive home hoping baby falls asleep, baby doesn't fall asleep, starts wailing in the last 10 minutes of car ride (but thankfully stayed quiet for 25), baby falls asleep finally when you get back to hotel room.
I guess one perk of having a wide-awake baby at the end of the night was to snap a cute photo for their guest book:
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| Our family representative. |
Monday, June 11, 2018
Nostalgia
I speak Chinese at home with my daughter. She doesn't understand what I'm saying yet, but it exposes her to the language. My theory is that my parents were both fluent in reading, writing, and speaking. I got....about half of their ability overall, maybe even less. So if the trend continues, my daughter will only get half of MY Chinese ability. That's not a lot...
So we're starting early with my poor tones, incorrect grammar, and all. It'll get better. I hope. But this blog isn't about my baby.
It'll be nearing five whole years since I left China. I have to remind myself I actually lived in a completely different culture and lifestyle than I was used to for an entire year. A lot of it feels like a blur to be honest. I can't remember details of what happened, and it seems like a lifetime ago. The one memory I can actually vividly remember is from our very first night after arriving in the city we would call home for a year.
We had taken the train from Beijing to Harbin. It was about 8 hours if I remember correctly. Once we arrived in Harbin, it was around 10 o'clock at night or later. The city was mostly quiet and dark. A teacher from our school, who was also sometimes our translator over the course of the year, had gone to Beijing and traveled back to Harbin with us on the train. He got us two taxis, gave them our destination, and we were driving off in the night in a foreign city to a place we would come to know very well.
I remember sitting in the taxi and staring out the window at the brightly lit signs that were on so late in the evening. Most of the city was shut down for the night, but certain signs and buildings were lit. I remember being in awe of my new surroundings and thinking, "This is going to be my new home."
The taxis stopped in the middle of the road somewhere and the driver told the teacher this was where we had to get off. The teacher asked if he could get us any closer. The driver said no because there was a lot of construction happening outside the main gate of the school, so that was the closest he could get us. The teacher seemed disappointed with his answer and insisted he drive us to the opposite side of the school wall and drop us off there because it was closer. The driver did not seem convinced it was closer, but he drove to the other side anyway.
I didn't know it that night, but over time as the campus became more familiar to me, I realized the driver was right. We ended up getting dropped off on the other side of the school gate and walked basically the entire width of the school to get to the gate and go in. Had we gotten off at our first stop, we could have saved ourselves about half the walk. Of course, we simply did what we were told and didn't complain or say anything because we were at the mercy of this new country in a new language and culture, and it was nearing midnight. We each had our two smaller bags. Our larger bags were shipped to the school so we did not have to lug them with us through the train station and onto the crowded train with very little storage.
Sidenote: Yes, I am Chinese and grew up eating Asian food, hearing the language, and even shared some of the same cultural values. But being Chinese in America is nothing compared to actually being Chinese and living in China. I was still very much foreign, very clueless, and my accent could be called out for being an outsider in about 10 seconds.
When we got to our dormitory, we knocked on the door, and the auntie who monitors the building came down and let us in. She asked if we wanted the keys to all the rooms. We just got two - the two on the lowest level (2nd floor) - and crashed for the night. It had been a long day of travel, but the hard work was yet to come.
The rest of the year was spent learning how to shower with a shoilet and hide your toilet paper so it didn't get wet, cooking on a hot plate, balancing ourselves on icy ground for six months out of the year, pushing our way through the school cafeteria so we could get our order in and eat before our lunch break was over, and many other lifestyle differences. I moved into a total of two apartments, one having only a few hours notice to move and get everything down the second time around.
My writing is not stellar, award winning, Nobel Prize material. But I'm glad I was able to write down some of the more interesting stories into a book. I'm glad I have it to share with my daughter when she is older. And I hope she can read the few Chinese sentences and phrases I've inserted throughout. Maybe there were more than a few...(Pretty sure I wrote it so context clues could give you an idea of the meaning at least.)
Do I miss China, or specifically Harbin? Yes and no. I really can't imagine ever living there again, especially not raising a baby. I remember seeing the marshmallow-looking babies bundled up in snowsuits in their mothers' arms. I constantly asked myself - how does the mother know if her baby is warm enough? Not to mention the potential danger of slipping on ice while holding your child in the winter...carrying eggs home from the market was dangerous enough!
But when memories come to me in the evening and I share them with my husband, I can't help but think how brave and bold I was at one point in my life to move halfway across the world and embrace a newness most people would immediately reject. What was once my life and home is now my nostalgia.
So we're starting early with my poor tones, incorrect grammar, and all. It'll get better. I hope. But this blog isn't about my baby.
It'll be nearing five whole years since I left China. I have to remind myself I actually lived in a completely different culture and lifestyle than I was used to for an entire year. A lot of it feels like a blur to be honest. I can't remember details of what happened, and it seems like a lifetime ago. The one memory I can actually vividly remember is from our very first night after arriving in the city we would call home for a year.
We had taken the train from Beijing to Harbin. It was about 8 hours if I remember correctly. Once we arrived in Harbin, it was around 10 o'clock at night or later. The city was mostly quiet and dark. A teacher from our school, who was also sometimes our translator over the course of the year, had gone to Beijing and traveled back to Harbin with us on the train. He got us two taxis, gave them our destination, and we were driving off in the night in a foreign city to a place we would come to know very well.
I remember sitting in the taxi and staring out the window at the brightly lit signs that were on so late in the evening. Most of the city was shut down for the night, but certain signs and buildings were lit. I remember being in awe of my new surroundings and thinking, "This is going to be my new home."
The taxis stopped in the middle of the road somewhere and the driver told the teacher this was where we had to get off. The teacher asked if he could get us any closer. The driver said no because there was a lot of construction happening outside the main gate of the school, so that was the closest he could get us. The teacher seemed disappointed with his answer and insisted he drive us to the opposite side of the school wall and drop us off there because it was closer. The driver did not seem convinced it was closer, but he drove to the other side anyway.
I didn't know it that night, but over time as the campus became more familiar to me, I realized the driver was right. We ended up getting dropped off on the other side of the school gate and walked basically the entire width of the school to get to the gate and go in. Had we gotten off at our first stop, we could have saved ourselves about half the walk. Of course, we simply did what we were told and didn't complain or say anything because we were at the mercy of this new country in a new language and culture, and it was nearing midnight. We each had our two smaller bags. Our larger bags were shipped to the school so we did not have to lug them with us through the train station and onto the crowded train with very little storage.
Sidenote: Yes, I am Chinese and grew up eating Asian food, hearing the language, and even shared some of the same cultural values. But being Chinese in America is nothing compared to actually being Chinese and living in China. I was still very much foreign, very clueless, and my accent could be called out for being an outsider in about 10 seconds.
When we got to our dormitory, we knocked on the door, and the auntie who monitors the building came down and let us in. She asked if we wanted the keys to all the rooms. We just got two - the two on the lowest level (2nd floor) - and crashed for the night. It had been a long day of travel, but the hard work was yet to come.
The rest of the year was spent learning how to shower with a shoilet and hide your toilet paper so it didn't get wet, cooking on a hot plate, balancing ourselves on icy ground for six months out of the year, pushing our way through the school cafeteria so we could get our order in and eat before our lunch break was over, and many other lifestyle differences. I moved into a total of two apartments, one having only a few hours notice to move and get everything down the second time around.
My writing is not stellar, award winning, Nobel Prize material. But I'm glad I was able to write down some of the more interesting stories into a book. I'm glad I have it to share with my daughter when she is older. And I hope she can read the few Chinese sentences and phrases I've inserted throughout. Maybe there were more than a few...(Pretty sure I wrote it so context clues could give you an idea of the meaning at least.)
Do I miss China, or specifically Harbin? Yes and no. I really can't imagine ever living there again, especially not raising a baby. I remember seeing the marshmallow-looking babies bundled up in snowsuits in their mothers' arms. I constantly asked myself - how does the mother know if her baby is warm enough? Not to mention the potential danger of slipping on ice while holding your child in the winter...carrying eggs home from the market was dangerous enough!
But when memories come to me in the evening and I share them with my husband, I can't help but think how brave and bold I was at one point in my life to move halfway across the world and embrace a newness most people would immediately reject. What was once my life and home is now my nostalgia.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Dear Mommy, ; Love, Mommy
My 7th grade English teacher gave me a journal and a locket when my mother died. She told me to write my memories of my mother so they could be remembered. I'm not sure I wrote down memories of her, but I ended up writing letters to her. I started each one with "Dear Mommy,". In the first ten years or so, they were frequent. I would write almost monthly. In a way, I felt forced to because I wanted to somehow keep her in my life and feel like she was still there. But then, the letters became less frequent. After getting married, I didn't write any letters to her until I got pregnant. I think in a way it's symbolic of the grieving process I experienced represented by the frequency of the letters. Life became more normal without her and slowly her presence faded. Doesn't mean she mattered any less to me, but it was a new normal.
She kept a diary in the last few years of her life. Most of it was written in Chinese. She would write down the happenings of the day, the progression of her prognoses, and include tidbits about what was happening in our lives as well. She never shared it with me or anything, and I didn't think much about it. After she died, my grandfather requested to have her diary. I never asked him about what was written in it and he never shared. Perhaps it was more sentimental just to keep the diary than actually reading through her logs. He died less than a year later and the diary moved along with my grandmother because she could not live alone. When I spent summers with my grandmother during the last few years of her life, I'd occasionally look for the diary, but I never found it. Even if I did, I doubt I would have been able to translate most of it.
I don't really have anything in writing left from my mother. That's something I wish I had more of. The most I have in writing from her is a newsletter journal from the first grade. Throughout the school year, about six times total, we would write letters to our parents about what we were learning or what events were happening at school. Then, we would take the journal home and our parents would read our letters and write one back to us. My reply letters were written by my mother.
About two months ago, I went out and bought a journal. If you've known me a while, you'll know that I've journaled and written diaries for years and years. But what you may not know is that I have always journaled in the cheap spiral notebooks you used to be able to find on sale for 10 cents each during the school supply sales. I wasn't into the fancy notebooks with designs or bound in leather because I felt like you couldn't neatly shelf them - it wouldn't be consistent. So I figured the simple spiral notebooks were easier to keep organized. Ironically, they're all boxed away sitting on a shelf somewhere. I don't know what I will do with them. Perhaps when my daughter goes through her teenage rebellious phase, I'll bring out the journals and let her read about my own teenage rebellious phase.
Anyway, the journal I bought is for her. I started writing letters in them before she was born, and whenever I get a chance or have something worth noting, I write it down in a letter to her. Jonathan writes in it occasionally, too. Every letter in there I write ends the same way: Love, Mommy.
I'll probably still write letters to my mother. Perhaps not as often or as frequent, but now, I am also Mommy.
She kept a diary in the last few years of her life. Most of it was written in Chinese. She would write down the happenings of the day, the progression of her prognoses, and include tidbits about what was happening in our lives as well. She never shared it with me or anything, and I didn't think much about it. After she died, my grandfather requested to have her diary. I never asked him about what was written in it and he never shared. Perhaps it was more sentimental just to keep the diary than actually reading through her logs. He died less than a year later and the diary moved along with my grandmother because she could not live alone. When I spent summers with my grandmother during the last few years of her life, I'd occasionally look for the diary, but I never found it. Even if I did, I doubt I would have been able to translate most of it.
I don't really have anything in writing left from my mother. That's something I wish I had more of. The most I have in writing from her is a newsletter journal from the first grade. Throughout the school year, about six times total, we would write letters to our parents about what we were learning or what events were happening at school. Then, we would take the journal home and our parents would read our letters and write one back to us. My reply letters were written by my mother.
About two months ago, I went out and bought a journal. If you've known me a while, you'll know that I've journaled and written diaries for years and years. But what you may not know is that I have always journaled in the cheap spiral notebooks you used to be able to find on sale for 10 cents each during the school supply sales. I wasn't into the fancy notebooks with designs or bound in leather because I felt like you couldn't neatly shelf them - it wouldn't be consistent. So I figured the simple spiral notebooks were easier to keep organized. Ironically, they're all boxed away sitting on a shelf somewhere. I don't know what I will do with them. Perhaps when my daughter goes through her teenage rebellious phase, I'll bring out the journals and let her read about my own teenage rebellious phase.
Anyway, the journal I bought is for her. I started writing letters in them before she was born, and whenever I get a chance or have something worth noting, I write it down in a letter to her. Jonathan writes in it occasionally, too. Every letter in there I write ends the same way: Love, Mommy.
I'll probably still write letters to my mother. Perhaps not as often or as frequent, but now, I am also Mommy.
Monday, April 23, 2018
Raising a Baby is like Picking Produce
When I was little, my mother would take me grocery shopping with her. I remember sitting in the cart as she pushed it through the store, and if she ever walked away a little too far for comfort because it was easier just to walk over and grab something than it was to push the whole cart over, I would start to get antsy. I still remember passing the bakery section of the supermarket, and if there were cookies out on the display case, she would get me one. I think subconsciously, I've had memories of that supermarket ingrained in my head because it has reappeared in my dreams and I can still remember the layout of the store almost to the tee. It's now a Home Depot. Bonus points to anyone who knows which supermarket I'm referring to. But now I digress.
I distinctly remember watching my mother pick produce at the grocery store. She'd pick up an apple, examine it, and either put it back down, or put it in the bag to purchase. I'd watch her do this for tomatoes, oranges, lettuce, and just about all the fruits and vegetables. In my mind, it was magical. My mother had the magical touch and knew exactly which ones to buy and which ones to put back. I wondered when I would develop this magical touch and be able to do the same.
Fast forward about 15 years to my junior/senior year of college. I was living in an apartment for the first time in my life, and I was doing my own grocery shopping. Sure, I'd driven to the grocery store before ever since I had gotten my driver's license, but that was to pick up the occasional teenage want: snacks, drinks, or one specific item. This was trying to meal prep for a week, shop on a budget, and be wise in my spending.
My roommate and I would go grocery shopping together since she didn't have a car and our schedules were similar enough that we could carve out this time on most Saturday mornings together. As I found myself pushing my own cart through the produce aisles of the grocery store, I ran through what I knew in my head: look at the produce, feel the produce, smell the produce, and make a decision. I carefully picked up and examined apples, oranges, broccoli, tomatoes, etc. Some I put in my bag to purchase. Some I placed back. But it felt different. I didn't feel the magical touch I saw in my mother as a young child. There was no magical touch. She simply looked at the produce, felt the produce, smelled the produce, and made a decision.
In my year living the apartment life in Austin, I bought some bad apples, I bought some vegetables with bugs in them, I threw out some rotten tomatoes, and life went on. I may not distinctly remember my mother throwing out any bad fruit or vegetables, but I can almost guarantee that she picked more than a few bad ones in her numerous grocery trips as well.
I feel the same way now about my daughter. Watching all my friends and other mothers who have children, they made it look so easy and effortless. Crying? Needs a diaper changed. Different cry? It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? 4 ounces. How long should she sleep? She'll be awake in about 3 hours. It always seemed like they knew exactly what to do and how to do it.
Me? I feel like a complete mess right now. Crying? I think it's the diaper. Or maybe not. She's still crying. Darn, it wasn't the diaper. It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? Let's try 2 ounces. Oh she wants more. Give her another ounce. Wait this time she didn't finish her 2 ounces. Why didn't she finish? How long should she sleep? I think I have about 3 hours. Why is she waking up after 1.5? She's supposed to be sleeping still!
Of course, I never spent a complete 24 hours with any of my friends and their babies, and I'm positive that only the cute pictures and sweet moments make it on social media. (Okay, some of the unglamorous truth might make it onto social media as well, but only if it elicits a laugh.) And it's only been 3 weeks so I should really cut myself some slack.
If it's one thing I know for sure, raising a baby is like picking produce: there's no magical touch. You simply look at her facial expression, feel for body temperature (and then actually use a thermometer), smell the diaper, and make a decision. And of course, the only thing being tossed out are foul-smelling diapers.
I distinctly remember watching my mother pick produce at the grocery store. She'd pick up an apple, examine it, and either put it back down, or put it in the bag to purchase. I'd watch her do this for tomatoes, oranges, lettuce, and just about all the fruits and vegetables. In my mind, it was magical. My mother had the magical touch and knew exactly which ones to buy and which ones to put back. I wondered when I would develop this magical touch and be able to do the same.
Fast forward about 15 years to my junior/senior year of college. I was living in an apartment for the first time in my life, and I was doing my own grocery shopping. Sure, I'd driven to the grocery store before ever since I had gotten my driver's license, but that was to pick up the occasional teenage want: snacks, drinks, or one specific item. This was trying to meal prep for a week, shop on a budget, and be wise in my spending.
My roommate and I would go grocery shopping together since she didn't have a car and our schedules were similar enough that we could carve out this time on most Saturday mornings together. As I found myself pushing my own cart through the produce aisles of the grocery store, I ran through what I knew in my head: look at the produce, feel the produce, smell the produce, and make a decision. I carefully picked up and examined apples, oranges, broccoli, tomatoes, etc. Some I put in my bag to purchase. Some I placed back. But it felt different. I didn't feel the magical touch I saw in my mother as a young child. There was no magical touch. She simply looked at the produce, felt the produce, smelled the produce, and made a decision.
In my year living the apartment life in Austin, I bought some bad apples, I bought some vegetables with bugs in them, I threw out some rotten tomatoes, and life went on. I may not distinctly remember my mother throwing out any bad fruit or vegetables, but I can almost guarantee that she picked more than a few bad ones in her numerous grocery trips as well.
I feel the same way now about my daughter. Watching all my friends and other mothers who have children, they made it look so easy and effortless. Crying? Needs a diaper changed. Different cry? It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? 4 ounces. How long should she sleep? She'll be awake in about 3 hours. It always seemed like they knew exactly what to do and how to do it.
Me? I feel like a complete mess right now. Crying? I think it's the diaper. Or maybe not. She's still crying. Darn, it wasn't the diaper. It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? Let's try 2 ounces. Oh she wants more. Give her another ounce. Wait this time she didn't finish her 2 ounces. Why didn't she finish? How long should she sleep? I think I have about 3 hours. Why is she waking up after 1.5? She's supposed to be sleeping still!
 |
| Is this a cry? Or a yawn? |
Of course, I never spent a complete 24 hours with any of my friends and their babies, and I'm positive that only the cute pictures and sweet moments make it on social media. (Okay, some of the unglamorous truth might make it onto social media as well, but only if it elicits a laugh.) And it's only been 3 weeks so I should really cut myself some slack.
If it's one thing I know for sure, raising a baby is like picking produce: there's no magical touch. You simply look at her facial expression, feel for body temperature (and then actually use a thermometer), smell the diaper, and make a decision. And of course, the only thing being tossed out are foul-smelling diapers.
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